


all your loving kindness

by impossibletruths



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bookstore Owner Quentin Coldwater, Christmas, Critical Analyses of Children's Literature As Flirting, Emotionally Constipated Eliot Waugh, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21759655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: Eliot stops by a local bookstore in search of a quick, early Christmas gift. And then, for some reason, he keeps coming back.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 46
Kudos: 304





	all your loving kindness

**Author's Note:**

> I said I was going to write holiday fluff and by Jove I did. Enormous shout out to [coldwaughtered](http://coldwaughtered.tumblr.com) for betaing and to [portraitofemmy](http://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com) for helping me untangle this when I was throwing spaghetti at walls.
> 
> Title is from the Percy Dearmer translation of _In dulci jubilo_ , which is just a really lovely carol and worth listening to.

“Hi,” says the man behind the counter, whose scuffed employee tag reads one big, blocky capital letter Q. “Can I help you with anything?”

 _I bet you can_ , Eliot thinks quick and easy, like a reflex, faced with wide eyes, a soft mouth, and a certain glimmer of curiosity that he could do a lot with, given time.

But he does, regrettably, need help. So.

“Yes,” he returns, bracing one elbow up on the counter like he doesn’t feel out of place here, because Eliot doesn’t feel out of place anywhere, thank you very much. “As a matter of fact. I’m looking for a–– mm. Book series? Kids’ book? There’s a… clock, I think?” It’s not Margo’s fault, of course, that he’s forgotten the name, but he’s pretty sure it’s kind of, sort of, somehow her fault.

“Um,” says the guy. “The–– the Fillory books?”

That sounds right. Right-ish. Close enough to right that he’s inclined to go with it. “Yes. Them. I think. English kids? Sheep… god… things?” It’s been a while. Sue him.

Capital-Letter-Q seems to get what he means well enough because he says, “Goats,” with a self-assured air and a brief, quirking smile, which is— Oh. Eliot’s being laughed at. That’s… well, not _new_ per se; he’s been laughed at plenty, but. Unexpected.

“Sorry?” He isn’t, actually, but Single-Letter-Name––which, what does the Q even stand for, anyway? Quincy? Quinn? Eliot makes a brief, delicate face. How unfortunate. A man with a name like that shouldn’t be laughing about having superior knowledge of a children’s book that came out, like, a million years ago.

But he’s grinning anyway, and––cheerfully, actually, enthusiastically, like he expects Eliot to be interested, which he kind of is, against his better judgement, though that has less to do with the books and more to do with the way he’s talking about them, hands shifting through the air, mouth all quirked in amusement––saying, “They’re goats, Ember and Umber, they–– Uh, you know what, never mind. Yes, we have them.”

He still looks like there’s a joke folded up somewhere in there that Eliot has missed, but at least he’s being helpful, sort of. And it’s–– well, it’s not a _bad_ face to look all pleased and wry like that. Never let it be said Eliot’s unappreciative of a cute, enthusiastic boy.

Even the nerdy ones.

Especially the nerdy ones.

“Great,” he says, meaning it. Q looks at him, expectant, and he frowns back, and––

“So, can I buy them, or…?”

“Oh, yeah! No, definitely, sorry. Are you, um, looking for a particular edition, or––?”

Eliot stares blankly. “Is there more than one?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Q, and then––kindly, really, sort of sweet and barely even pitying at all––hazards, “Is this a gift?”

“Yes.” Eliot smiles his best, most apologetic _I’m just trying to buy a Christmas present in this capitalist hellscape_ smile. “My friend, she loves them. I thought I’d find a nice copy. You know, surprise her.”

“That’s really sweet of you.” He sounds like he means it too, like he cares that a stranger wants to find a nice book for a friend. Though, given that he works at this little bookstore that may not be a strange opinion to have regarding the literary pursuits of strangers. Eliot wouldn’t know; his only opinion of literary pursuits strange or otherwise is that he could probably find something better to do with his time.

“I thought so,” he agrees anyway, because he does, and it is. Q smiles at him again, less with the teasing and more an open easy smile and oh. _Dimples._

“You’ve definitely come to the right place.”

“Have I?” echoes Eliot, still with the–– dimples, and the floppy hair too, actually, and even the rumpled button down has a charm that could be bohemian, if one were being generous, and Eliot finds himself suddenly inclined towards generosity.

“Yeah, cause y’know, the Whitespire Armory? It–– You know what, ask your friend.”

“Right.”

He clears his throat a little and Eliot gives up on his––really not quite as thorough as he’d like, not with the counter in the way––appraisal of Just-The-Letter-Q, who is staring at him in his own sort of consideration. More proprietary. Right, yes. Buying things. Bambi. Christmas. Capitalism. He’s on task, he’s focused, he’s spending money like he has it. Q tilts his head to the door just past the counter.

“But if you want to come on back––”

“Well,” drawls Eliot, reflex again, and this time he doesn’t bother to restrain himself, “if you insist.”

“I. Um.” For a moment he stares at Eliot, off balance and stuttering, and then––and _then_ , merry _fucking_ Christmas to him––he grins, slow and rueful, and clarifies, “To see the books.”

Eliot shrugs, unrepentant. “If that’s what does it for you.”

Q’s cheeks go pink, but he mutters, “Maybe it is,” as he resolutely steps out from behind the counter, which is just. Delightful, really. Eliot grins mostly to himself as he follows the man into a back room that looks exactly like the rest of the book shop, in that it’s yet another gutted room of what might have once been a nice townhouse now walled floor to ceiling with dark shelves and crammed with hundreds upon hundreds of gently used books. In the center sits a heavy table scarred from long use, and a big orange chair that absolutely doesn’t fit the dimensions of the room nor the decor, but the hodgepodge interior decorating seems to be a bit of a theme here because he definitely walked past an overstuffed couch and a wingback leather armchair while trying in vain to find Margo’s stupid books. And failing, of course, but. He’d gotten a nice tour of the bookstore out of it.

It could be considered homey, almost, if secondhand bookstores were one’s thing. Eliot, who hasn’t willingly touched a novel since he turned eleven or so and found life miserable enough as a queer kid in the midwest without needing to be a queer kid who liked to read––and then he’d found other means of escapism, decidedly _not_ of the literary persuasion, and–– Well, they aren’t his thing, the point is, but. It’s quaint.

Also, he discovers as he follows Q deeper into the room: There’s a cat in the chair.

“Oh hello,” Eliot says, delighted, any and all thoughts of books and gifts forgotten as he beelines for the ugly thing––the chair, not the cat––and offers his fingers out. Q makes a strangled sound of warning behind him.

“No, she doesn’t–– huh.”

Eliot isn’t sure what she _doesn’t_ , but what she does is arch her back up into his hand and rumble a pleased purr. When Eliot looks up, Q is staring at him, strange and stalled out, like he’s trying to pick something apart, or put it together maybe, pieces not fitting right. Then he blinks and it’s smoothed over, mostly, and Eliot can’t be sure he didn’t imagine it except he feels distinctly unsteady. The cat butts against his hand once more and then curls down in the seat of the chair again, and he turns away, clears his throat, reaches for something to anchor himself.

“What’s her name?” his mouth asks of its own volition, and Q is still–– staring at him, but he answers without trouble.

“Penny. Well, Penelope really, Penny’s a–– a joke, um. So, the books?”

“Yes, your myriad editions.”

“It’s not that many,” he mutters, like there’s a story in there somewhere, and Eliot feels like smiling again. It’s a warm, shivery feeling he can’t quite place.

“To be honest,” he says, tamping it down, getting himself back under some semblance of–– of control, or something, “I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, no worries,” says Q, and turns towards one of the shelves, fingers walking along the spines with a delicate, direct sort of care. “Just give me a sec, let me–– Mm, I know they’re here somewhere.”

So Eliot lets him look, settles his ass back against the heavy wooden table and enjoys the view. The cat watches him, blinking with those wide, liquid eyes of hers. Q makes a sudden soft sound of victory and turns back around, pale blue volume in his hands.

“Okay, so,” he says, bracing. “We have a full set of second printing, if you’re looking for all five of them. The Secret Sea is a little worn, but our bookbinder restitched the cover and it should hold up. You can look at it. If you want.” He holds the book out. It’s old, clearly, and well kept for its age. Eliot accepts it gingerly. Q’s fingers are cold in spite of the clanking heater gusting warmth through the building.

He thumbs through the pages delicately. A few of them are illustrated with what look like woodcuts, intricately detailed. His eyes skim over a few passages, half-remembered names jumping out at him. He has a momentary flash of being eight, maybe, under his bed, hiding from the noise of the house and stubbornly pushing through the book because he cared about how it ended, for some reason. Like somehow it mattered, then, that the kids survived. Won.

He closes the book again. Presses one palm across the cover. They’re very nearly of a size. Made for smaller hands. 

Margo will love them.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, means it. Q’s face breaks into a smile, pleased and brilliantly bright. Eliot’s stomach does something fluttering and strange. Traitor. He clears his throat. “You said you have the full set?”

“Yeah,” says Q. His expression has gone funny again, like there’s something big and complex working behind his eyes, intricate clockwork ticking away. “Yeah, uh, they’re yours if you want them.”

He shakes away the shivering inside his torso. Pointless organs; who needs them anyway. “How much?”

Q looks at him, for a long, considering moment. It feels… awkward, and backwards, like he’s appraising Eliot and not the books, and his head is still clouded with an off-kilter sort of curiosity, a tentative wanting. He reaches blindly for something to say, to fill the space, to–– make it make sense again, maybe. In the dry-heat warmth of the bookstore he shivers.

“Sixty,” says Q before he can manage anything, name tag shining in the amber light, big blocky letter standing out stark against the pattern of his button down. The shirt underneath had looked brown, but it is actually a deep, soft green. His lip quirks. “I’d offer to wrap them but you uh. Probably don’t want that.”

Eliot drags himself together again, folds his fingers reflexively around the book and lets the rough texture of the canvas ground him. Raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

His smile manages to be both warm and completely self-deprecating. “Disastrous. The cat’s a better candidate and mostly she just eats the wrapping paper.”

“In that case I’ll brave it myself.”

“Good decision.”

Some of the strangeness fades. Not all, but some, enough that he only feels a little odd asking, “If I, say, wanted to get a copy of the first one for myself––?”

“We definitely have extras,” says Q with that same warm, inside-joke laugh. “I’ll toss it in.”

“Are you sure? I can definitely pay––”

“No.” Q cuts him off. “No it’s um. Just. Come back and tell me what you thought, maybe?”

Eliot stares at him. “Yeah,” he manages, finally. “I think I can do that.”

“Great.” And then he extends his hand. “I’m Quentin, by the way.”

“Eliot.” His hand is warm and broad, handshake firm. Eliot draws his hand back and thinks, _God, Quentin, that’s even worse._

Which almost makes him laugh, and _that_ would be hard to explain, so. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Or, do, but only if you end up liking it.”

“I’ll let you know,” Eliot promises. It’s easy; he’s made plenty of promises in his time. This one he thinks he might actually keep.

Q––Quentin––rings him up, and bags the books with their soft canvas covers a rainbow, and says, “I hope your friend likes them.”

“She will,” Eliot says, assured, and tucks his scarf around his neck and smiles at Quentin, warm and certain and unexpectedly friendly, like he knows this man already, somehow, some way. Quentin smiles back, and passes him the books, receipt tucked in the front cover of a brand new paperback edition of _The World in the Walls._

Outside, under the slate-grey sky, it’s begun to snow.

* * *

He reads the book between work and wrapping Margo’s gift, and discovers why a bookstore called The Whitespire Armory is such a clever joke, if nerdy references are your thing.

He also discovers, on one lonely night delving down the rabbit hole that is Ebay, that even a used, second printing of the complete _Fillory and Further_ series runs at a couple hundred dollars.

So. There’s that.

* * *

He’s busy with a customer when Eliot arrives. The whole place is busy, crowded, holiday buzz heavy in the air. It’s dark out already even though it’s barely gone four, lights shining up and down the street and strung up over the road. Scant days after Thanksgiving and the world is drenched in Christmas cheer, and there’s that particular ozone chill in the air that promises snow before the night’s out. By all reckoning it’ll be an early, white holiday. How whimsical.

Eliot braces one arm against the counter and waits for Q to come up for air.

It takes… a while. Eliot pages through at least half the pocket-sized quotes book propped up next to the register before Q’s attention lands on him, rueful and tired.

“Sorry about that,” he says, and then blinks up at him in recognition, face changing. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” says Eliot. Q’s smile is like the sun, warming him from crown to toe. “Busy day.”

The smile slips, and Q makes a face, the fraying patience of the retail worker during the holidays. “Yeah, uh. Sorry. About that.”

“Don’t be. I’m not doing anything important.”

“Oh, right, well. Um, is there anything you need help with, or––?”

“No, nothing. I’ve just come to say I finished the book.”

“Oh,” says Q. Then, brighter, “Oh! What did you think?”

“I liked it.” He tries not to sound surprised, he really does, but. Reading hasn’t been his thing since… well, ever, really. Too much trouble, not enough payoff. He shrugs. “More than I thought I would.”

“Yeah,” says Q, warming. “They’re really cool actually, when you look at the–– Oh, sorry, hang on.”

He says sorry a lot, Q. Eliot’s noticing that now, as he turns to another customer, old with cloudy white hair and a sweet, slightly distracted smile asking about… something. Eliot goes back to the quotes book. _Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today,_ Benjamin Franklin warns him. Eliot makes a face. Thanks, Ben.

“How do you feel about coffee?” Eliot asks when Q’s attention lands on him again.

“Um. Pro, generally?” He frowns, a sweet little furrow between his brows. “Why?”

“I thought I might buy you one. When’s your break?”

“Ha,” says Q, in a way that Eliot’s pretty sure means _What break?_ But then he looks at the shop, and his watch, and says, “Um, give me twenty minutes?”

So Eliot says, “I’ll be in classics,” and leaves Quentin to do his job, which is, of course, monstrously boring but so is life, and he’s mostly made his peace with that, most days. He’s poking through a selection by another Waugh–– _Brideshead Revisited_ sounds vaguely familiar, if nothing else, and a perfunctory Google search suggests it’s legitimately queer so he’s actually, for the first time in his life, considering willingly buying a book with the intention to read it himself––when Q appears at his shoulder.

“Hi,” he says, again. “Julia’s covering the register and I’m ‘on break––’” He doesn’t make them, but Eliot can hear the air quotes anyway. “––if you want to. Uh. Get coffee?”

Eliot has no idea who Julia is but he’s deeply, personally grateful to her.

“How long do you have?”

“How long does it take to walk to the closest coffee shop?”

“We’ll make it count,” Eliot decides, and offers out his elbow, gentleman-like. Q stares at it for a moment, blinking, and Eliot has just long enough to think, _Right, okay, maybe not._

But then he smiles that intrigued, rueful grin again––it’s something in his eyebrows, Eliot decides; he has the most lovely, expressive eyebrows––and links their arms together.

There’s no line at the café next door. Q orders a black coffee and sips on it slowly while they wait for Eliot’s drink. He winces each time he does, like it’s too hot, but doesn’t stop drinking it. Eliot watches his face fold and unfold with a curious hunger.

“I really am sorry about this,” Q says, meeting his eyes over the plastic rim of his disposable cup, which reads ‘Merry Christmas’ in capital letters along every inch of its surface. He makes a harried, windswept picture. Eliot reaches out to fix the lock of hair that’s falling in his face, and Q watches him until his hands land back in his own space again. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. “I mean, I do want to get coffee with you.”

“I’d hope so,” Eliot replies. “We’re already here.”

“Yeah but like. For real.”

“Mm.” He would too, but that’s easily solved by the wonders of modern technology. “Give me your phone?”

Q makes a little noise at the back of his throat, like _oh right that_ , and reaches for his back pocket, and his face abruptly drops.

“Shit, I don’t––”

“It’s fine,” Eliot’s already assuring him. It does nothing to change the self-conscious slump of his shoulders, so he tacks on, “Really.”

“I’m a mess.”

He is, a bit. It’s cute. Eliot’s fingers itch to smooth him out a little, fix his collar or his scarf or that tired, unhappy tilt of his mouth. Behind him, the barista calls his name. Eliot takes his coffee. Q sighs.

“I should get back.” He sounds a little like he’d rather do anything else. Eliot slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Should you?”

“It’s just a bad week,” Q says like an apology. He’s warm against Eliot’s side, which is–– nice, in an easy, uncomplicated sort of way. “We’re short staffed, I’d really––like, seriously, _really_ rather be, um, doing this than. That.”

“Understandably,” Eliot nods. “I’m much better company.”

“You are,” says Q, completely honest, which sort of ruins the carelessness of the comment and makes Eliot mean it even more, and he–– doesn’t know what to do with that, where to put it. He masks the sudden flash of uncertainty in his chest by tapping his own Christmas-bright cup against Q’s and letting him lead the way back next door to the warm, bustling bookstore, so Quentin’s face won’t see whatever his face is doing right now, because Eliot’s pretty sure he’d just embarrass himself.

Julia, it turns out, is a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman with a sharp smile and rings like gold string wrapped around her fingers. She gives Eliot a long once-over, and her smile goes, if anything, sharper.

“Have fun?” she asks Q, more gently than her expression would suggest, as he ducks behind the counter, shedding coat and scarf.

“Yeah,” he says, and immediately turns to the girl hovering near the register with a bright, easy smile. “Hey! What have you got there?”

“Thank you,” Eliot says aside to Julia, because he knows a wingwoman when he sees one. She gives him another considering look.

“Eliot, right?”

“And you must be Julia.”

“Nice to meet you.”

It is. Eliot leans forward over the counter a bit, and her eyebrow tilts up in a question. Quentin, next to them, has eyes only for the girl who is excitedly telling him about the book she’s buying. Eliot props his hand up on his chin. “Do you have a post-it note?”

She does. Eliot pens down his number.

“Give that to him for me, would you?”

Her face is all pleasant, sharp-edged mischief. He likes her. He likes her a _lot_.

“I’d be happy to, Eliot.”

* * *

_can u cover weds? dad’s got an appointment_

His phone dings startlingly loud in the quiet of the afternoon lull, so loud even Todd wiping down tables on the other side of the room jumps. A moment later it pings again.

_shit sry wrong person_

And then, _this is quentin_

Eliot grins.

_So you did get my number_

There’s a long pause, three dots blinking up at him, and then in quick succession––

_yeah_

_sorry about not texting sooner I’m pretty bad at this_

_hi?_

_Hi_

He takes a brief, deeply satisfied moment to save the number as “Q📚🐱” and ignores a text from Margo about the loan paperwork, which is sitting on their kitchen table as she’ll no doubt discover just as soon as she gets home.

 _Is your dad okay?_ he drafts out, then stares at the text for a long minute, because it–– maybe isn’t something he should ask about, actually, but that does nothing for the prickling concern in his chest. He chews on his lip and erases the message, starts again with something lighter.

_Short staffed again?_

_pretty sure we’re cursed_

_Happy holidays_ 🎄

🙄

_Not a fan?_

_working retail during the xmas season? not rlly_

Eliot laughs, ignoring the strange look Todd levels at him from across the room––as if _Todd_ is in any place to be giving him strange looks––and types out a reply He hesitates only a moment before sending it.

_When do you get off?_

Q doesn’t reply for a while, long enough that Eliot has to put his phone away and pull drinks for a windswept couple arguing about holiday travel plans and ring up table four because Todd’s broken the computer twice so far this week and Eliot refuses to call someone in to fix it again and Sunderland isn’t in until six, and then and then and then—

By the time he gets back to his phone it’s just after ten and he has three missed messages and a call from Margo, no voicemail.

 _It’s girls’ night fyi_ warns Bambi’s text, which is nice of her. Fogg wants to know if he’ll cover NYE—absolutely not, thanks; if he’s lucky he won’t even be working here come New Year’s—and there’s a text from Q time stamped 9:34pm.

_jesus sorry. things got crazy. I’m off now. sort of_

_Sort of?_

In return he gets a picture of boxes of books, and the cat, with the caption, _sorting stock_ and a frowny face. Eliot snorts.

_Is Lady P getting overtime too?_

_we pay her in tuna & belly rubs _

_Lucky lady_

_right? no one ever gives me belly rubs_

He’s halfway through replying, _That could be arranged_ when Sunderland’s voice breaks in. “Waugh—“

“I’m off.” His hands come up, the perfect picture of innocence only slightly ruined by the phone. But the clock above him reads 10:10 so he’s not breaking any company policies. For once. 

She gives him a lingering look and a slow, “Mm,” but lets it go, wandering off to give Todd grief instead, because that’s also, like, company policy or something. He’d feel bad except Todd kind of asks for it. Constantly.

Eliot fishes his tips out of the jar and erases the message, typing one-handed as he grabs his coat.

_Have you eaten?_

_not yet_

Then, _why?_

 _Leftovers at work._ He pushes open the door to the kitchen. Josh perks up to see him. Eliot… doesn’t. It isn’t that there’s anything wrong with Josh; he’s a good guy, a great cook, and a better dealer. It’s just. Well, he’s a little wary about anyone Margo’s slept with and still like-likes. It’s against the laws of nature, or something.

But he’s working in the kitchen tonight and Margo’s roped him into baking for their holiday party, so–– “Can I get dinner to go?”

“Absolutely, my man. Just you?”

“Make it two.”

Josh raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. It’s hardly the first time he’s brought home food for himself and Margo; it's not like he's being _weird_ about this or anything. He's being nice, actually. Friendly. He checks his phone again. Three messages.

_are u serious_

_eliot_

_u better not be joking about food_

And the dots blinking with another incoming message. Eliot braces his hip against the counter with a smirk.

_I take all meals deadly seriously. I’ll be there in 10._

_how close do u work???_ comes the reply. Then, _just text me i’ll let u in_

“Good news?” Josh asks, handing him two styrofoam takeout containers. Eliot slides his phone back in his pocket, curiously light. He can’t be bothered to wipe the smile off his face.

“You know, it just might be.”

“That’s great, man. Have a good night, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

Q’s at the door when he gets there, cheeks rosy from the heat gusting out into the night, hair pulled back in a bun. Christmas music plays somewhere deeper in the shop, something upbeat and jingling. His sweatshirt is easily a size too big and he’s not wearing shoes. His left sock has a hole in it.

Eliot’s heart constricts, sharp and sudden.

“Eliot,” Q says, like he’s somehow surprised he’s here even though he said he’d be. “Hi.”

“Q,” Eliot says, and clears his throat. “I brought dinner.”

“You really shouldn’t have,” says Q, but he takes the carton and steps back to let Eliot in, locking the door behind him. They wend through the store, mostly dim now, to the back room, which is exactly the same except that about ninety percent of the table is stacked with books sorted in an assortment of towering piles, and so is a significant portion of the floor. The speaker in the corner is playing a Bublé classic. It looks like he’s hours into this, and hours from being done with it. The cat, still seated in the chair, blinks up at him briefly and tucks her head down again.

It’s kind of impressively chaotic.

“Sorry about the mess,” Q says, sinking down on an overturned milk crate in a relatively clear patch of floor. Eliot boosts himself up onto the remaining ten percent of the table.

“Mm, yes, you should be ashamed.”

Q laughs, huffing and wry and tired somewhere underneath. “You know, when I started I thought it was going to be worth it.”

“And now?”

“Mostly I’m just happy for a distraction.”

Eliot hums, digging into his meal. Josh, he’ll admit, has outdone himself. “I’m always happy to be distracting.”

“I bet you are,” Q mutters, which is just–– delightful, really. He pops the lid on the container. “Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“This is really— I mean you said leftovers. This isn’t—“ He looks almost afraid to touch it, which defeats the point, styrofoam balanced precariously on his knees and mouth tugging down at the corners, and Eliot doesn’t want that, didn’t mean that; this is supposed to be easy, nice, a thank you for the books and a… something else, maybe, sort of. 

“We’d have thrown it out anyway,” Eliot says, carefully careless. “And I thought it would be nice.”

“It’s really nice,” Q assures him. “Way better than what I had planned.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think we have some peanut butter? Somewhere?”

Jesus. He _is_ a mess. “What a good thing I’m here to save you from such a tragic fate.”

“A knight in shining armor,” nods Q because he is, apparently, that kind of nerd. “Where do you work anyway? This is… really fucking good.” Clearly, because he sets to pretty much straight-up inhaling it.

“I bartend.”

“At a five star Michelin restaurant?”

“You can only have three Michelin stars,” Eliot points out. And Brakebills only has one, much to Fogg’s consternation. “It’s on Hudson, down near the—“

“Oh! Um, that really fancy place with the, uh, they do the goose thing.”

“We do other things there too,” Eliot points out mildly. Which is stupid because he doesn’t even like the place; he doesn’t need to defend it. And the annual goose flight is really _fucking_ weird. Q snorts.

“You know, Jules got thrown out once.”

“Jules?”

“Julia.”

“Ah.” He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know any of the details but I hear she got in a fight with the maître d’?”

“God,” marvels Eliot, imagining the slight woman with the sharp little smile getting into it with Sunderland. “I knew I liked her.”

“She’s great, yeah.” He pauses, clearly bracing himself, and then— “You know, she’s the one who introduced me to, uh, Fillory, and all that.”

It’s as unsubtle a transition as anything, and all the more endearing for it. Eliot spears a stalk of asparagus and raises both eyebrows, but Q only shrugs, caught out and unrepentant.

“You said you finished it.”

“I did.”

“And you’d tell me what you thought.”

“Mm.”

“So?”

“Why do you like them so much?” he counters, curious. Clearly he does; he works at a store called The Whitespire Armory, for fuck’s sake.

“It. Um.”

There’s a rough edge to his hesitancy; he goes suddenly fidgety and anxious. Eliot’s stepped close to––something, clearly. He shakes his head. “You don’t have to––”

“No, it’s okay.” Determination reads clear on Q’s face. “I’ve got this, um, this thing, where sometimes my brain. Uh. Breaks? I was–– um, sixteen, the first time I was hospitalized. And my dad, um, he brought me these books, and it–– I mean, reading them made me feel enough like me again to sort of. Keep going, I guess. So.” He breathes out, harsh. “They’re. Important.”

“Right,” says Eliot, who gets coping with whatever’s–– present, or means something, or could mean something. He wets his lips and tries, tenderly, “Do you… still feel like that?”

“I mean,” says Q, and shrugs, a whole body affair, like he’s trying to put all that weight somewhere, now that it’s heavy in the air around them. “It works better, in its own fucked up way. It’s not like it every goes away, but things are. Definitely better now.”

“Good,” says Eliot. “That’s–– good.”

“Sorry. That’s, um, a lot to dump on someone, I know.”

“No, it’s–– I get it.”

“You–– oh.”

Eliot smiles, thin and straining. “There was this guy I was seeing. It ended… badly.” He shies away from the memory on instinct. “And I did… _everything_ , to try to forget about it, and it wasn’t–– Margo talked me into rehab, eventually.” He laughs, or tries to. Most of it sticks in his throat. “I’m sure things would have been better if it had been books.”

“Cheaper,” Q says, smile just at the corner of his eyes. His thumb is still picking at the edge of his styrofoam takeout container, box clicking quietly under the muted Christmas music, but there’s color to his face, which feels–– right. Better, anyhow.

So Eliot shrugs, equally heavy, ostentatious really, and braces back on one hand, careful not to disturb the books.

“Exactly. Less glamorous, of course, but I suppose there’s no helping that.”

“Gee,” says Q, failing to sound at all insulted. “Thanks.”

“I liked it, actually.” Surprisingly. “The kids made... intriguing protagonists.”

“Intriguing,” he echoes, doubtful, and. Okay. So maybe intriguing isn’t quite the word for it.

“Honestly I thought I’d hate them, but they’re kind of awful, aren’t they?”

Whatever Q might be expecting, it clearly isn’t that. He presses the handle of his fork against his lips, eyebrows sketching out vast paragraphs of confusion and consideration. “I mean… Are they?”

“Jane’s far more interested in the adventure than she is in her own family, and Fillory keeps rewarding her for that. The sheep especially.”

“Goats,” corrects Q. Eliot waves him away.

“Bovidae. Martin’s desperate to be a part of something and she keeps leaving him behind. And Rupert has a stick so far up his ass it’s amazing he managed to keep up with either of them without having a seizure.” He’s also clearly gay, but Eliot’s not sure the author, whatshisface, realizes that. Or maybe he does. Maybe it’s the old morality codes. Q puts his fork down entirely.

“I mean like, yeah he’s got that, y’know, stiff upper lip thing going on, but he’s a war hero too, y’know? He’s seen the worst of the world.”

“And that’s the other thing––it doesn’t exactly conform to the conceit of childhood innocence, does it?”

“See, I don’t think it’s supposed to, though.”

“Children experience fantasy, grow up too fast?” Eliot makes a face. “What happened to believing in fairytales.”

“I mean, we write stories all the time about how children become adults. There’s a whole, like, genre dedicated to that.”

“I wouldn’t label Fillory a Bildungsroman,” Eliot says. He can’t put his finger on it, exactly, but he’d be willing to bet there’s something fucked up with the guy who wrote them. “It’s like there’s something under the surface, something the author doesn’t tell us. Unless it comes up in later books, I guess.”

“Now who’s a nerd,” says Q, sounding almost impressed about it, or something close. “But like–– that’s fair I guess. They’ve definitely got that sort of–– y’know, sure, they’re kids’ books but there’s other stuff going on. I mean I still pick up on new things every time I read them and it–– There’s definitely a lot of nuance. Probably why people still get so deep into them, y’know.”

Eliot hears the excuse for what it is and lets it pass. He’s not here to pass any sort of judgement for coping mechanisms. He hasn’t got the standing for it. “There’s some really weird shit in there too. What’s the point of the velvet horse thing?”

Q’s nodding along before he even finishes speaking. “The cozy horse? Yeah. It’s kind of weird, there are a lot of fan theories. But it comes back as this like, really important touchstone at the end of book three in a way that sort of, like, completely reframed how you understand the kids’ journey which is—I mean, it’s super cool, when you get there. Uh, spoilers.”

“Mm, thanks.”

“Sorry, I’m. A fan.”

“Clearly.” It comes out gentle, gentler than he intends, but that’s alright. “Did you study this?”

“Like, kids’ books?”

“Lit.”

His expression clears. “Ha. No. Philosophy. Though now I own a bookstore, so maybe the kids’ lit would have been more helpful. The philosophy is definitely, y’know, completely useless.”

Eliot blinks. “This is your store?”

“Um. Yeah.”

He thinks, maybe, he should have put that together beforehand. “Explains why it’s called the Whitespire Armory.”

“Okay, that one was entirely Julia’s idea.” He pauses, grins. “It’s pretty good though, right?”

“Very clever,” Eliot nods, all patient, and indulgent, and— charmed, okay, yes, fine. But he knew that already, sort of; that’s why he’s here with salmon at, what, half past ten at night, thinking in a comfortable, steady sort of way, _I want to kiss you_.

He’s probably just like this, flighty and a bit of a mess, and all that enthusiasm underneath. Eliot flashes his best smile and Q stutters, whole body catch-and-release that is just. Delectable, really.

The conversation drifts a little, then, touches on other books Q declares must-reads, on movies Eliot can’t believe he hasn’t seen, and the crossover between the two. Q is bright and quick and unashamedly himself; he meets all Eliot’s well-curated opinions with ideas of his own. Listens to Eliot bitch about the restaurant, and admits in turn that the staffing issue is a long-standing thing and he’s going to have to hire someone, probably, and is absolutely dreading it.

“I mean, everyone else who works here is just. Like, a friend? I’ve never had to interview anyone before.”

“Never?”

“I know,” he sighs. “I’m a terrible CEO.”

“Maybe it’s your small business owner ingenuity.”

“Thanks,” Q says glumly.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Eliot assures him. He sighs again, heavier, and frowns up at the ceiling. Eliot watches him, silent.

Penny jingles in the chair, stretching, and makes the careful leap up to the table, winding through the stacks of books to butt at Eliot’s arm. Insistent little thing.

“It’s funny, y’know,” says Q as he runs his hand down her back. “She’s pretty, um. She doesn’t usually like people.”

He doesn’t doubt it, with strangers coming and going all the time. Must be stressful. But Q probably knows that too. 

“What can I say? I’m magic.”

“Sure,” says Q, voice all crooked, and when Eliot glances up at him he’s doing that looking thing again, like maybe he sees something worth the consideration. Eliot’s hand pauses, too heavy, and the cat wriggles away, and one of the stacks of books teeters, and Eliot isn’t fast enough to––

It slides off the table with a crash, and Penny jumps comically high and vanishes into the maze of the room. Eliot looks to Quentin for a moment, and he’s not sure who breaks first––he’ll swear it was Q––but they’re both laughing, half hysterical, cracking right through whatever tension has risen around them.

“Sorry,” says Eliot, wiping tears away, grinning too wide and so fucking _light_. “Sorry, she just––”

“They’re so stupid,” Q is nodding over him. “Cats are so fucking––”

“Do you need help cleaning up? I can––”

“No, it’s fine.” He waves the offer away, but his laughter lingers on his face. “I should get back to sorting this anyway.”

“Of course,” Eliot agrees generously, half worried he’s overstayed his welcome and half unwilling to leave, not when Q is so… everything that he is, unabashedly so. But he pulls on his coat and lets Q lead him back to the door. He pauses in the doorway just a moment, turning back to Q, all warm and rosy in the gentle light of the store.

“I know it isn’t exactly coffee—“

“Nothing personal, Eliot, but this was kind of way better.”

“Think nothing of it,” Eliot says, hoping maybe actually he’ll think quite a lot of it. “I mean, you sold me those books for nothing, practically, so. This is really the least I can do.”

Quentin pauses, looking somewhat surprised, and then wary. Ill, almost. “Oh, that isn’t— I mean, you don’t need to do all, uh, this—“

“I’m not,” Eliot interrupts. He hadn’t meant it like–– But it’s fine. “I wanted to. I promise.”

“Okay,” says Q slowly, still doubtful. “But like, seriously. You bought those books fair and square, this isn’t like— I don’t know, charity or whatever. They just, um. I thought you were the right person for them.” He winces. “Sorry that sounds really trite.” 

“Needy book to good home?” 

Q shrugs again. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Seems like a questionable business model.”

“I mean, yeah, but. Special circumstances or whatever.”

“Thank you,” says Eliot, oddly touched.

“Yeah, of course. Um, thanks for. Y’know. Dinner?”

“Well. What are friends for?”

“Right.”

Q’s starting to look tired again, frayed around the edges, and Eliot’s out the door, really, he’s going, except.

“Get some rest?” he says, and Q smiles behind the pall of exhaustion.

“Yeah,” he says, in a sort of way that makes Eliot think he won’t, probably. “Night.”

“Goodnight.”

* * *

“You’re back late,” says Margo when he gets in. Fen is sleeping on the couch, felt antlers askew on her head. Eliot fixes her blanket.

“I was making friends.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Making friends, or––”

“Entirely G rated.” At present, anyhow. Mostly.

Fen shifts a little in her sleep at the noise, so he retreats to the kitchen where the light above the stove is still on, a faint puddle of light seeping across the tile. The clock on the microwave reads not quite midnight in blinking red numbers. There’s a bottle of wine open on the table, nearly empty; he pours himself the last of it. Waste not.

“Uh huh. I know that look. El––”

Margo’s followed him in, sock footed and small. She’s got the tiniest bit of a clay mask still stuck to the line of her jaw; he wets his thumb and rubs it away, frowning just past her dark, searching eyes.

“It’s fine. He’s cute. He’s… sweet.”

“Didn’t know sweet was your type.”

“Mike was sweet.”

She hums deep and low in her throat, which says about all that needs to be said about Mike. It doesn’t even sting as much as he thinks it should.

 _I want to take care of him_ , he almost says, doesn’t say. Margo’s still looking at him, uncertainty and knowing making a strange war of her expression. One sharp shoulder braces against his chest as she leans into him. 

“Just… take care of yourself.”

“I always do.”

She makes a noise that isn’t quite disagreement, but isn’t far off. “And email that realtor would you? He keeps fucking calling me.”

“Yes, Bambi,” he says, and he and the last of the wine disappear to bed.

* * *

He emails the realtor, then meets with him first thing in the morning. Tick Pickwick is an irritating, officious little man, but the property is exactly what they’re looking for, and startlingly close to a certain bookstore, and Eliot’s not much one for believing in fate or destiny but he finds himself idly wondering, as Pickwick locks up the building behind him and he texts Margo the last of the pictures, if maybe this isn’t a little of both.

* * *

Between work and the finer details of opening a restaurant––during the holiday season no less, the fuck were they thinking––it’s a couple of days before he can find the excuse to visit the Armory again. A tree looms large just inside the entrance when he arrives, and Julia is standing on a stepladder, up to her elbows in the branches. Lights trail down over her arms to coil in a frankly enormous pile on the ground, boxes of ornaments stacked precariously next to it, and customers are making an effort to skirt around the entire scene.

“Are you sure you have enough stuff for that?” Eliot asks, door jingling shut behind him. Julia, pine needles stuck to the front of her sweater, smiles down at him.

“Hi, Eliot.”

“Hello, oh lady of the tree. Is Q in?”

Her expression, for the moment it lingers on him, is entirely too knowing. “Not today.”

He papers over the disappointment, drifting closer to the tree, which very nearly scrapes the ceiling. “More exciting places to be?”

“He’s in Jersey. Help me with this?”

“Excuse me?”

“Alice is helping Plum learn the register. Pass me that next string.”

There’s something inarguable in the expectation in her voice, so he does. Almost immediately he wonders vaguely if he’s been tricked into something. His mouth flattens at the corners as he straightens, handing her the trailing end of the lights. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well there’s this holiday towards the end of December, you may have heard about it…”

“Ha,” says Eliot, and Julia grins down at him with far too much self-satisfaction. It’s a Q joke, through and through. Or maybe it’s the other way around; maybe it’s a Julia joke, and Q’s the one who picked it up. She reaches out for another length of lights. 

“It’s part of our holiday giveaway,” she answers properly, muffled a little by the greenery. Eliot untangles a few feet of cable and holds it out, ready.

“You’re giving away a tree?”

“Q likes to wrap books for kids and leave them under the tree. Like a white elephant thing.”

 _Needy book to a good home,_ thinks Eliot with a wobbly flicker of warmth.

“He’s visiting his dad, right?” It’s Wednesday; he’d forgotten. “Is he… alright?” His dad, Eliot means. Though, Q too.

Julia’s hand pause weaving the lights through the branches. Not–– not _long_ , exactly, but there’s a noticeable catch, like she has to brace herself.

“He’s… doing better,” she says slowly, and Eliot doesn’t know which one she’s talking about. “He was–– I don’t know what Q’s told you.”

“Nothing,” Eliot says, honest.

He can’t be sure but he thinks she’s smiling. There’s not much by way of humor to it, but her mouth makes the right shape, face glowing slightly under the buzzing ceiling lights. There’s something almost elfin to her, all shining with the window reflecting the interior of the shop back at them, street outside grey on grey on grey, slightly too warm for snow and misting down a seeping, slushy rain. 

“Ted––his dad––he had a brain tumor. He’s in remission, but Ted was… pretty adamant about, um, not treating it, and Q didn’t… It was hard.”

“Shit,” says Eliot, feeding out the lights automatically, trying to fit the sucking sensation of someone else’s tragedy into a neat little box. It’s easy, usually, because one of his many well curated talents is not giving a fuck, except apparently when it comes to nerdy, enthusiastic bookstore owners with soft mouths and bright eyes and bad eating habits. It isn’t even that he can relate, because he can’t, because his dad is––

But his stomach turns over anyway.

“Yeah,” Julia agrees. She’s off the stepladder, now, and Eliot feels sort of accessory to the whole decorating thing and also like she might break him in two if he tried to leave. She watches him slantwise as she works, sharp and assessing, and she’s nothing like Margo in the slightest but he thinks of Margo anyway. That banked, cutting loyalty. Like she’s looking for something and willing to dig into him to find it.

It’s… well, not a relief, not being on the other side of it. But he gets it. Watching out for someone.

Especially if that someone is Q.

He sniffs. “I can’t imagine the stress. I mean, Jersey.”

“I’m from Jersey,” Julia says mildly, taking the last of the string lights. Eliot straightens his vest.

“You’d know, then.”

Her attention holds on him, just a moment, then her entire demeanor shifts, like something’s clicked into place that hadn’t fit before. “No, yeah, I would.”

She plugs in the lights and the tree twinkles to life, glinting merrily in the frame of the window. Julia steps back, dusting her hands off, pleased.

“I’ll tell Q you came by,” she says. “He’ll be sorry he missed you.”

“Right,” he says, certain this has been a test and mostly sure he’s passed it. “Thanks.”

He ends up buying a slightly battered copy of _The Girl Who Told Time_ from a teenager with choppy dark hair, Alice––who he knows by reputation more than name––walking her through the checkout process. Penny the cat is curled in the warmth of the desk lamp at the end of the counter; she permits a brief pat and returns to dozing.

Julia, back on the stepladder and hanging candy canes, winks at him as he leaves.

* * *

He doesn’t mean to make a routine of it. But he finishes the book, and the next one, and the one after that, and after each one he has no one to talk to but Q. And he’s so close, right there, and––

He’s on his way over before he remembers to text. _Are you working tonight and if so have you eaten?_

_guess_

And there’s a picture of Penny attached. Eliot grins.

_Hungry?_

_is this going to be a regular thing?_

_Depends. Were you planning on eating peanut butter out of the jar?_

The three dots blip for a minute before Q’s reply arrives.

_that’s plain pasta erasure_

He snorts, turning up the street, chin ducked against the wind. The tree in the window of the Whitespire Armory glimmers against the dark of the street, and an answering light glows in his chest. _That’s horrifying. I’m horrified, Q_

_we can’t all work at gourmet restaurants_

_Clearly. Let me in?_

Q opens the door laughing.

* * *

Margo sinks against him with a sigh, tucking her bare feet under her and wrapping both arms around one of the pillows. It’s late, after dinner, the television turned to an old Christmas classic and volume low, neither of them watching it really. Eliot braces one elbow on the arm of the couch and settles the other on her thigh. Their drinks make a perfect mirror of each other against the smooth glass of the coffee table. Outside the sky is clear with cold, stained by the smog of the city.

Margo says, “We should have the party at the restaurant.”

“At–– Brakebills?”

“No, dumbass. The Cottage.”

Oh. Right. He chews on that. “You think?”

“What, you want to have it here?” She waves a hand at their––nice, yes, but hardly _spacious_ ––apartment and, well, he gets her point.

“A grand opening,” he contemplates. “Could be fun.”

“Expand the guest list. Should we hire caterers?” He gives half a shrug, ambivalent. “You’re right. Not worth it.”

“More of a teaser.”

“Just a taste.”

“Exactly.”

They clink glasses. Margo shifts back against him, like his own personal space heater. He tips his head back against the couch and kicks his feet up on the coffee table and lets his eyes drift closed. On the TV, George Bailey is realizing how important he is to everyone around him. It’s nice. Cozy.

Margo’s voice cracks through it all. “Invite your boy.”

Eliot snorts. “He’s not _my boy._ ”

“You’ve been over there every night this week, El.”

“Not _every_ night.” He has a reputation, for fuck’s sake; Margo can’t just go around making accusations like that. Anyway, it’s not his fault the place is right there in the neighborhood, and Q keeps opening the door to him like he wants Eliot to be there.

When he cracks an eyelid to frown at her, she scowls, unimpressed. He frowns right back.

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re all over him. It’s like some Hallmark shit.”

“He’s a friend, Bambi. Who, yeah, I’d fuck if he let me, but it’s nothing serious.”

“Okay. Sure. And I’m the queen of Fillory.”

He refuses to stoop to her level, so he sips his drink and ignores it until her sharp little elbow finds the soft spot right under his ribs.

“Ow, fuck. Margo––”

“I mean it. Invite the whole group of ‘em. I want to meet him and his little friends.”

“It’s my party too, you know.”

“Ergo extending an invitation.”

He knows a lost cause when he sees one. He sighs, slumping back against the couch, admitting defeat. “You’re such a bitch.” 

She bumps the volume a couple of notches and leans back against him.

"Yeah,” she says. “So do it or I will.”

* * *

So.

* * *

“We’re having a holiday party,” he says. “Non-denominational, obviously.” 

Ostensibly he’s helping Q shelve books, but mostly he’s singing along to Spotify’s Christmas playlist and playing with the cat, who is deeply fascinated by the glint of the light off his phone screen. She scrabbles across the carpet, bell jingling away. The remains of dinner sit on the table, and Eliot’s wondering in a vague, distracted way if he should bring wine, next time. He thinks yes, maybe.

“We?”

“Me and Margo. A prelude to our grand opening.”

Q shuffles himself and the box of books over to the next shelf. “What grand opening?”

“We’re opening a restaurant.”

Q pauses, looking at him over one shoulder. “You–– what?”

“Just down the street.” He shrugs and wiggles his phone a little, sending Penny scrabbling after the spot of reflected light.

“That’s great, El, congrats.”

His stomach flips over at the nickname, because apparently it’s decided he’s a fourteen year old with a crush. He swallows it down.

“Thank you.”

Q goes back to his shelving. “So we’ll be neighbors.”

“And bring a little class to the neighborhood.”

“Oh, good. I was really worried we were missing class, here.”

Eliot bites down hard on a flash of utter fondness. “Understandably. So you’ll come?”

“Uh,” Q says. He’s pushed up onto his toes trying to reach the top shelf, one hand braced against the bookcase like it will lend him a couple extra inches. Eliot takes pity on him, tugging the book from his unprotesting grasp and slotting it into place. See? Helpful.

“Well?”

“Margo sounds pretty terrifying,” he hedges, looking up at Eliot. His eyebrows do a curious, bunching little thing, and Eliot tamps down the urge to smooth them out again.

“She’s all bark.” Well. “And bite.”

“Uh huh.”

“But she’ll like you.”

He looks amused again. It settles warm and solid somewhere in Eliot’s gut. When, he thinks a little wildly, is that going to stop; is it going to stop; he doesn’t want it to stop. Q braces his shoulder against the bookcase. “That’s not really as reassuring as you’d think, El.”

“Relax,” he says, feeling, fucking–– _unmoored_ , still. “She’s not going to eat you. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

The way his throat bobs suggests he’s maybe not _not_ into that sort of thing, and Eliot–– puts a pin in that one. He can’t deal with that, not on top of everything else. He already feels a little like he’s losing his mind.

“It’s nothing serious,” he says instead, soothing. “Just some friends, some food, some holiday cheer. You do experience holiday cheer, right.”

“The only kind of cheer I experience, actually,” Q returns. “Like, contractually.”

“See? It’ll be perfect. Drink some spiked eggnog, sing a couple carols––”

“I’m really not sure you want to hear that, actually.”

“––holiday cheer obtained.”

“Yeah, okay,” laughs Quentin, all dimples. “Fine. When is it?”

“Christmas Eve. Also, technically, Hanukkah. A night of magic and wonder.”

They’re still standing at the bookshelf, too close and not close enough, and Q is looking up at him, laughter faded but not gone, lovely and sweet and expectant, maybe, just around the edges. Eliot wants to put his hands all over this boy, put his _mouth_ all over this boy. He wants it in a heady, hazy sort of way that makes the world go soft.

“Perfect time to embarrass myself at a holiday party, then,” Q says, and Eliot wants that too.

Fuck.

Margo’s right.

_Shit._

“Everyone else is invited,” he says, slipping back out of Q’s space, trying to clear his head. “Julia and Alice and the other one. Peaches.”

“Plum.”

“That’s what I said.”

Penny gives him a baleful stare, like she knows exactly what he’s doing. He flicks a balled up bit of paper at her and she goes flying after it.

And he very, very carefully doesn’t think too hard about the warmth in his chest.

* * *

So. Margo is maybe, just a little bit, just this once, absolutely correct as always. And he is going to do–– nothing.

The trouble is, he _likes_ being Q’s friend. Has liked it since Q laughed at him and talked too enthusiastically about his nerdy books. And sure, yes, he’s always had the vague notion that at some point one thing would lead to another and Eliot would catch him against one of the nice, solid bookshelves and show him a good time, but afterwards they’d part ways still friends, no harm done.

Except. Except Eliot, apparently, wants to be more than just friends. He wants to be more-than-just-friends in a big, gentle, horrible sort of way. So.

So–– something. Or, actually, so nothing.

Or––

“Do you want to get dinner?”

He’s sitting in the ugly orange armchair, mostly listening to Q explain why science fiction and fantasy aren’t shelved together––

(“––it's an ideological difference, y'know? Like, sci-fi's predominantly forward-focused speculative fiction and fantasy is mostly occupied with like, historical reflection. I mean, obviously it's not that cut and dry––" 

"Because Star Wars.” 

"Right. Or, like, Dune is pretty historically-influenced, but it’s still––")

––petting the cat like a James Bond villain and enjoying it maybe slightly too much, and Q stops abruptly to frown at him.

“Is that a trick question?”

Eliot blinks at him. “No?”

“Just cause, y’know, you don’t usually ask before you stop by, so like––”

“There’s a restaurant nearby I want to try.” Josh had sworn by it, once, and anywhere Josh considers good is probably worth scoping out. Keeping an eye on the competition, and all that.

“Oh.” Something in Q’s expression unfolds a little. “Um, sure? When?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Can’t,” says Q. “My dad––”

Right, of course. “Thursday?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll meet you here. Seven?”

Q shrugs, awkward. “You know where to find me.”

He does. It’s a warm, steady surety pressed up against his breastbone.

“I promise nothing too exotic,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to offend your pedantic tastes.”

“Dick,” Q says, but he’s laughing. Some bright, heady emotion blooms in Eliot’s chest, and he’s almost surprised to realize it’s joy.

* * *

The restaurant is a charming little place on the corner. It has a side terrace and slightly too many candles to be considered classy, and the faux frosted garlands hanging from every clear inch of table and mantle space are a little garish, but fire safety hazards aside it's not terrible. The atmosphere is cozy and warm, and the acoustics are decent, and it’s among the better rated places in the neighborhood, so. Eliot’s doing reconnaissance.

The company is nice too, of course.

“So what are we doing here, really?” Quentin asks as Eliot scans the menu, frowning tightly at the options. He should talk to Margo about this; they have a wider selection.

“Measuring the competition.” 

Quentin hums, a patient sort of indulgence. “Right.”

“It’s vital research, Q.”

“Of course.”

Eliot flips the menu over and makes a show of ignoring the look Quentin's leveling at him across the table, like this is all one big joke they're in on together. Eliot doesn't get butterflies, but if he did that might account for the way his stomach is fluttering right about now. He examines the appetizers in an attempt to take his mind off it. 

“Should we try the burrata or the stuffed peppers?”

“Uh.”

“Oh, they have a bone marrow dish.”

Q goes a delicate shade of green. “Let’s not do that one.”

Eliot hums. It looks interesting, certainly. He almost wants to try his own hand at it, just for fun.

But he promised Q nothing too strange, so they settle on the peppers, because anyone can serve cheese and basil and call it antipasto––and be wrong, of course, but there’s truly no accounting for taste.

He also orders them a decent red wine, and braces his chin in his hand when the waitress disappears to fetch it.

“How’s your dad?”

Q looks surprised, and then not surprised at all. “Better,” he says with a gentle, tentative smile. “He’s coming up for Christmas with us. Me and Jules, and probably a couple other people. Julia’s boyfriend.”

The distaste is loud and clear in his voice. Eliot raises his eyebrows. “Is there a story there?”

“No, Penny’s just an asshole.”

“Penny like–– the cat?”

“Yeah. He hates it.” And Q looks so fucking smug about it that Eliot laughs. 

“It sounds nice.” He can imagine it, Q at a table with Julia and his dad and other people, features hazy in his mind’s eye.

Q hums, and the waiter arrives with the wine. They tap their glasses together. 

“Are you doing anything?” Q asks.

Spending the day with Margo is all he has planned. Opening the pair of presents sitting underneath their small yet charming Charlie Brown tree. Margo’ll get a kick out of it, he’s sure, realizing she’s indirectly how Eliot met Q in the first place, getting to claim that credit years down the line, and–– No, he isn't thinking about where he and Q will be years from now. He's thinking about next week, about cooking an elaborate meal for the holiday then pawning the leftovers off on, well, Q, probably. It’s been a long time since he did a large Christmas dinner; the quiet days with Margo have always been his favorites.

“Well, there’s the party.”

“Of course.”

“We don’t usually do much.”

“You and Margo.”

“Yeah.”

Q sips on his wine, and smiles distractedly at their server when she sets down the peppers. They smell amazing. “I–– like, I do want to meet her.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“She seems like she’s a–– an important part of your life.”

“She is.”

He nods. “Right.”

There’s something off in his voice, something in the way it catches and smoothes over, too quick and uneven. Eliot puts the menu down.

“Q?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? If you’re worried about Margo––” _Don’t be_ , he means to say, but Q cuts him off.

“I just— um. So I know this is something we probably should have talked about like, weeks ago, but. Are we dating? Is this a date?”

“Uh,” says Eliot. His brain decides abruptly to cut to an unhelpful, whining white noise thing; all the thoughts seem to have vanished from his head. His stomach flips over again, and in a wild attempt to weasel out of the question he counters, “Do you want it to be?”

“Yeah,” says Q, which. Probably shouldn’t blindside him like that, but.

Well.

He swallows.

“Oh. Right.”

He tries to lay his thoughts out, but it’s hard when they seem to have all gone to fuzzing static. He feels inexplicably like he’s watching this unfold from a very long way away, and at the same time is hyper aware of everything around him: the flickering of the candles and the sheen of the lights off the wine glasses and the curl of steam rising from the plate on the table and Bing Crosby crooning over the speakers and Quentin watching him, expression tipping towards something that hurts to look at.

“I don’t––” he begins, and stops. Tries again. “I’m not sure it would––” But that peters out too. He doesn’t know where to start.

Something nearby is buzzing. Ringing.

It–– oh. His phone.

Margo.

“Sorry,” he says to Q, distant, inflectionless, horribly grateful for the distraction. “I have to take this, just––”

And because he’s a _fucking_ coward, he grabs his phone and steps outside.

It’s snowing now, fat flakes soaking into his shirt, sticking to the ground and muffling the world. The windows of the restaurant are fogged over from the heat inside; Q is a misshapen blob through the glass. 

He regrets it. He regrets it immediately, as soon as he’s outside, as soon as he’d had the phone in his hand and knew in that far away, perfectly clear way that he was going to do this, was going to fuck this up too. He turns away from the window, raises the phone to his ear.

“This better be good,” he snaps as soon as the call connects, angry at himself and ashamed.

“Calm down,” she returns, breezy and impatient. “It’s good news. The paperwork went through.”

“The–– What?”

“The licenses? For the restaurant? _Our_ restaurant?”

He feels dunked in ice water. More than he does now, anyway, with flakes melting through his hair and down the back of his neck. He shivers, switches the phone to his other ear. The skin on his hands goes taut with the cold. “It–– I thought we had to wait until January.”

“I pulled a few strings.”

“Oh.”

She huffs at the other end of the line, a harsh rush of air in his ear. He winces, squints back into the restaurant. The interior runs like watercolor through the muddled glass; he can’t pick out which shape is Q. Eliot is going to have to say something to him when he gets off the phone, and he has no idea where to start. Sorry, I’m terrified of telling you this but I really like you? Hey, I think we should definitely make out also please let me take care of you, I think I could be really good at it? I haven’t dated anyone in years but I’d really like to date you so yes, okay, I’m in if you’re in? Please, please pick me, let me be your person?

He’s pretty sure that last one is a little pathetic, even by his standards.

“––at the last second, Margo, you’re a fucking rockstar.’”

“You are a fucking rockstar,” he parrots, even though he has absolutely no idea what she just said. Pressing matters, extenuating circumstances, she’ll get over it. “I was just. Mm. Kind of in the middle of something.”

“The fuck does that mean.”

He almost tells her. Wants to tell her.

He flinches.

“That restaurant thing Fen was talking about––”

“The one Josh likes?”

His voice sounds distant to his own ears. Fake. “Yeah.”

“The fuck you doing there?”

 _Making a fool of myself_ , he doesn’t say. “We should know who we’re up against.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s important business strategy, Bambi,” he says.

“Yeah, whatever.” There’s a pause. “Is it good?”

“Hard to say. We just got here.”

“We? Who’s––?”

“Tell you later,” he replies, which sounds far too desperate, and before she can ask anything else, he tacks on, “Goodnight, Margo,” and hangs up.

She’ll understand.

He stands in the middle of the sidewalk for a moment, passers-by excusing themselves past him. Takes a handful of deep breaths until his lungs burn and he feels like he's, like, inside his body again. Grounded. The interior of the restaurant looks warm from here, cozy. He takes another breath for good measure.

Q is in there. Q's waiting. Q has offered him something terrifying and true, for some godforsaken reason, and the least Eliot can do is try. He doesn't know what to say, where to start, but. He means to try.

Only–– only when he steps back into the restaurant, Q is gone.

The table is there, with their mostly full wine glasses and the appetizer stark against the tablecloth and their menus right where they left them, but no Q. He’s gone, and so is his coat, and hat, and–– and everything.

Eliot closes his eyes, takes a moment to regain his bearings as the world spins around him.

“Excuse me,” he says to a passing waitress, polite and charming and–– everything, whatever, he puts his best foot forward. “The man who was sitting there, where did he go?”

“Oh,” says the woman, mouth a little frown as she tries to remember. “He left. Said he was running late for something, I think.”

“Did he, um, pay for the––?”

“Yeah, he paid for everything. I’m sorry, should we not have––?”

“No, no, just. Wanted to make sure.” He scrapes together a smile, heart a stone in his stomach. _Fuck._ “Thanks.”

“Have a good night. Merry Christmas!”

She moves on to the next table, and for a moment Eliot stands rooted in the entrance of the restaurant, staring at the table where his coat sits alone, abandoned. He wants a drink, a smoke, to storm out into the night and find Quentin and grab him and tell him, _no, I’m sorry, I like you so fucking much, please come back._

He slowly, carefully collects his things, and leaves an extra tip for the waitstaff, and steps out into the swirling snow.

* * *

_Can we talk?_

_Didn’t mean to run out on you like that. Work stuff._

_Q, talk to me_

_I’m sorry_

The messages glare up at him from the flat white of his screen. There’s no indication Q has seen them. He hesitates, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, then clicks the phone off and sets it on the table, screen side down next to his empty glass.

He’s not quite gone enough to pour himself another drink, but. Shit.

The front door creaks open, bar of light from the hallway falling across the entryway. Margo’s heels click on the hardwood, then her footsteps go soft as she kicks them away. She pauses in the frame of the doorway, body language confused.

“El?”

“In here.”

She flicks the light on, too bright. He winces.

Margo takes one look at him, hair disheveled and elbows braced on his knees and empty glass in front of him and says, “Jesus.”

Maybe he should have that other drink.

“The hell happened to you?”

“Pretty sure I fucked up something really good.”

“What’s new,” she says, flopping down on the couch, and when he doesn’t move at all, she sits up a little. “Oh, you were serious.”

He looks at her. Whatever’s on his face must be particularly dire, because she raises one eyebrow. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She considers him another moment.

“You gonna drink about it?”

“I’m… trying not to.” He's been through that part before, and it doesn't fix anything. It doesn't even feel that good.

“Good,” she says, sharp and unsympathetic, but he recognizes the relief beneath it. She stretches out again, digging her feet into his lap until he has no choice but to unfold himself and make room for her. “Wanna watch some dumb Christmas shit?”

“God, yes.”

So they watch Die Hard. What? It’s seasonal.

“I got dinner with Q,” he says about midway through, quiet under the dulcet tones of Alan Rickman. Margo's attention stays fixed on the screen, but––

“Oh. Shit.”

“Hmm.” He nods, eyes back on the television.

“Tonight?”

“Mm.”

“When I called?”

“Mhm.”

“Eliot.”

“It’s fine, Bambi.”

They're quiet for a moment, sound of the movie filling the room.

“You know I’m on your side," Margo says.

“I know.”

“You’ll fix it, El.”

He snorts, humorless. “Fixing things isn’t really my strong suit.”

She sits up, staring at him, light of the television flickering across her face, deepening the shadows of her eyes and shining across her cheeks.

“This matters,” she says, like it’s a question and like it isn’t. Eliot glances aside to her.

“Yeah.”

“Then you’ll fix it.”

Like it’s that simple. He sighs.

“I hope so.”

She leans forward even closer, presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Watch the movie, honey. Your boy’s not going anywhere.”

Which is–– true. Q will still be there in the morning. Eliot knows where to find him.

He sits back and watches the movie.

* * *

“Quentin’s not here,” says Alice when he asks, frosty as the wind keening down the street outside.

His stomach sinks. _Sorry_ tolls in his chest like church bells; _sorry sorry sorry––_

“Do you know when he’ll be in?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s fine,” he lies, like the inside of his chest isn’t caving in. He’s not entirely sure how he manages to say it, actually, since his ribs are constricting around his lungs and breathing is something of a lost cause, but. “I’m only dropping off invitations.”

“Invitations?”

“Happy holidays.” He clamps down hard on the tolling contempt in the back of his head and sets a small stack of cream-colored envelopes on the counter. “You’re invited.”

She eyes them narrowly. Her lips press into a thin line. Eliot hesitates.

“If you see Q, can you let him know I was here?”

It’s a long minute before she says, “Fine.”

And then: “He’s a good guy, you know.”

“I know.”

“He cares about people. A lot.”

“I know, Alice.” He’s well aware of that, how much of himself he puts out there, how hard he tries, how much better a person he is than Eliot. 

Her jaw works for a moment.

“Don’t–– waste that.”

He fights the urge to go on the defensive, forces his shoulders to relax, hands to unfurl. Swallows. “I’m trying not to,” he says, tight and unhappy and true. “So just–– If you see him. Let him know?”

She eyes him for a long, long moment, then sweeps all the cards off the lip of the counter and down to the desk behind it.

“If I see him,” she agrees.

“Thank you.”

He buys the last Fillory book while he’s there. It feels like the right thing to do.

* * *

On Christmas Eve the restaurant closes after lunch, and Eliot spends the afternoon with Margo at the Cottage, hanging lights and fixing decorations and building the playlist. Fen arrives early to help, which mostly involves her marveling at the space and starting on an enormous batch of mulled wine. Josh shows up with an enormous amount of food, and there's a flurry of activity until suddenly everything's ready. There’s nothing left to do but wait.

“Tell me it’s going to be alright,” he says to Margo.

“Grow a pair of ovaries,” she tells him. He nods and fixes his best, most charming mask on, straightening his vest like it's armor.

“Thanks.”

People filter in slowly, circling around the room. Eliot mixes drinks, and pours drinks, and smiles and banters and charms people and waits and _hopes._

The hoping is the worst of it. 

He does, eventually, as the party starts to reach that level where it feeds itself and his attention can drift elsewhere, start to unwind a little, actually enjoy himself. Fogg comes by and offers a surprisingly heartfelt congratulations, and he catches sight of Julia in the crowd, and even Alice, briefly, and Fen is talking animatedly with Todd, which is almost sweet, tonight, and––

“Eliot.”

He’s halfheartedly commenting about something innocuous when Margo cuts him off, eyes falling on someone behind him. He has to brace himself before he turns around.

It’s Q, of course. Wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater Eliot’s ever seen, and his heart goes _ka-thunk_ in his chest, like knocking on a door.

“Right,” he says distantly. “Okay.”

Q scans the room, eyes landing unerringly on Eliot and Margo surveying their kingdom, and Eliot can’t drag his eyes away as Q approaches. Margo shifts her weight, hip cocked out, watching.

“Hi,” she says when he reaches them. “You must be Q.” She holds out a hand. “Margo.”

“Hi,” he says, shaking her hand. “Sorry, can I borrow Eliot for a moment?”

“You can keep him,” Margo says, because she’s literally no help at all, and takes her leave to work the room, leaving Eliot alone with Quentin.

“Hi,” says Q.

“You came.”

“Yeah. Here I am.”

Here he is. They stare at each other for a moment.

“I was promised spiked eggnog,” Q says finally. Eliot wets his lips.

“I can do that. Step into my office?” Q’s mouth quirks.

Eliot leads him back into the kitchen, noise of the music and crowd going muffled. The stainless steel countertops are messy with bottles and a wide array of pastry trays mostly decorated blue and gold and plastic bags of extra decorations, but it’s more private than the open dining room. Quentin braces his back against the wall, looking mostly at the empty hooks where the pots and pans will go. Eliot busies himself with making them both drinks. He feels no more steady with one in his hand, though, which feels vaguely unfair. It’s practically his natural habitat.

“Thanks,” says Q.

Eliot says, “I’m sorry.”

“I know. I got your text.”

“You didn’t reply.”

“I needed some time.”

Eliot doesn’t know what to say, and settles on saying nothing.

“I just wanted to, uh, let you know that it’s alright. I didn’t mean to make things, y’know, weird. I just sort of freaked out. That’s not–– I mean, it isn’t your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Eliot asks, almost automatically. Q wraps his palms around the glass and frowns.

“No.”

“Cause I feel like I fucked that one up, Q.”

“I don’t––”

He holds a hand up. “I knew what you were asking and I know how much it–– mattered, and I just left.”

“Yeah.”

Eliot’s jaw works. Q’s staring at him, like he’s looking for something. Eliot’s eyes skip sideways; he can’t hold his gaze.

Quentin sighs.

“It’s alright. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Eliot manages to get out, only slightly garbled. “It’s not _fine_ , Q.”

“What is it then, Eliot?” His voice cuts through the music and the noise. “If I’m wrong––”

 _You’re wrong_ , he thinks, this side of hysterical. _You're wrong,_ _I want you; I think I could love you._

“Q,” Eliot says. “It–– I––”

But the words won’t come.

Quentin stares at him for a moment and nods, mostly to himself.

“It’s alright,” he says again, kind almost, and that’s the worst of it all, that he still sounds gentle and kind when Eliot has been clumsy and careless with this thing that matters so _fucking_ much. He turns away, and in a moment Eliot sees it all flash past, Q walking out of the kitchen, the party, this sheltered corner of his life he’s built just for Quentin, this thing he wants to expand, breathe life into, to _keep_.

He can’t lose that. He can’t.

“No, wait––” He reaches a hand out, catches him just in the doorway, and Q twists back to look at him, looking so fucking tired.

And then Q isn’t looking at him. Q is looking past him, looking at something just above him. Eliot pauses.

“What?”

“It’s, uh,” Q says, wetting his lips. He tilts his chin. “Mistletoe.”

Eliot’s eyes flick up.

A cheerful sprig of green with stark white berries hangs from the door frame. Q’s staring at it, and then he’s staring at Eliot, watching him with big, wide eyes, expression a churning mix of uncertainty and that same, stubborn, jutting-jaw determination that drove him here in the first place.

Well, he thinks, hysterical and hopeful and terrified and a hundred things between. Who’s he to argue with the longstanding Christmas tradition of mistletoe?

Eliot dips forward. It’s such a little space between them, and Quentin is tilting his chin up in invitation, so Eliot curls one hand gently against the back of his neck and kisses him, puts into it everything he can’t find the fucking words for. Q gives a tiny, shivery gasp under him, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, and unwinds completely, opening up to Eliot, letting him deepen the kiss until the whole world shrinks down to them in the doorway, stretches for a crystalline moment until they aren’t even kissing anymore, just stood there forehead pressed to forehead. His heart pounds so loud it might well jump out of his chest and into Q’s.

Someone wolf whistles.

“Get a room,” Margo calls, and he opens his eyes slowly to find Quentin staring up at him, eyes wide, breathing the same air. They’ve attracted an audience, guests turned towards them, conversations silenced. Mariah Carey croons beneath it all. His hand is still on Q’s neck; Eliot can feel his pulse jumping under his fingers.

“Thank you,” he says to Margo, acerbic. She gives him a thumbs up. Q takes a hefty step back, out from the danger of the mistletoe and the circle of Eliot's arms, and looks towards the door.

“Uh,” he says, quiet, anxious. “I should, um––”

“Wait,” Eliot says. Asks. “Wait, please, can we. Let’s talk.”

And Q–– nods. “I’ll be. Um. Just, outside, okay? I need some air.”

He pushes through the crowd and disappears out the door. Eliot rounds on Margo.

“Well?” she says, waving her hand at Q’s retreating back. “Merry fucking Christmas. Go get him.”

“I hate you,” he says gratefully, not meaning it at all. She hands him his coat.

* * *

The street is quiet and dim, snow just starting to dust down. Quentin stands in the pool of the streetlamp, shoulders braced about his ears, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his jacket. Eliot pulls on his coat. Behind him, muffled Christmas music seeps from the building.

“Can we, um,” says Q, not looking at him. “Can we try that again.”

“Please, yes.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Eliot can feel the echo of his lips, soft and warm. Q clears his throat.

“So.”

“I’m not–– _trying_ to be an asshole,” Eliot says. Q’s mouth quirks.

“You’re doing kind of a really terrible job of that.”

“I know.” He hesitates.

“So what–– I don’t know, what happened? I thought we were fine, I thought we were–– I mean, you kept bringing me dinner and talking literary theory about, y’know, my favorite books, and–– did something change and I just missed it, or––”

Eliot can’t meet his eyes. “I got scared.”

Q doesn’t say anything, gives him ample space to think himself in circles until he has to say something. He huffs.

“I’ve never been very, hm, good at caring about people the right amount.” Moderation has never been one of his strong suits. He’s always been all in or all out, no matter how hard he tries to pretend. “And the last person I was seeing, he––" _Was a cheating fuck_ , supplies the voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Margo. “––took advantage of that, and it. I freaked out.”

“Okay.” Q’s looking at him, all firm and intent, frown between his brows. “You know I’m not him, Eliot.”

“I know.” Christ, he knows; Q is nothing like that, and Eliot is the asshole for not dealing with it like a fucking grown up. It’s just. “I really don’t want to fuck this up.”

Q gives him the sourest look, which he–– deserves, yeah, fine. His eyes find the glow of the windows across the street.

“I like you a lot.”

“That’s good, cause I like you a lot too.”

Eliot takes a deep breath. “I would, if it’s something you’re still interested in, like to date you.”

“I’m definitely still interested.”

“Well. Great.”

It hangs in the air for a moment, anticlimactic, stale. The snow spins through the glow of the streetlights.

Q says, quietly, “Can I kiss you again?”

“I really wish you would.”

His lips are cold, and so is his nose pressed up against Eliot’s cheek, but his mouth is warm and inviting, tang of bourbon on his tongue, and his fingers curl up in Eliot’s coat and he presses up into Eliot’s space like he can’t get close enough and Eliot wants this forever, endlessly, desperately.

“Come to dinner tomorrow,” says Q when he pulls back. Eliot blinks at him.

“What?”

“Come to dinner with me and Jules. Bring Margo.”

“You and Julia and Julia’s cat-hating boyfriend and your dad.”

Q pulls back a little further. There’s snow in his hair and his cheeks are pink with the cold, his smile just this side of impish. “Well, yeah, he’ll be there too. And Julia’s girlfriend––”

“Julia’s what now?”

“––and, you know. Other people.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be meeting parents? Also, can we go back to the Julia’s boyfriend-and-girlfriend thing.”

“You don’t have to,” Q says, ignoring the second half of that. “I don’t–– I mean, I’m not trying to rush you to, y’know, meet him or anything. I’d just like it if you were there. Instead of alone.”

“I wouldn’t be alone.” He has Margo. He’s never alone, never has to worry about it.

“Well,” says Q, like that’s an argument in and of itself. Eliot wets his lips.

“I’d have to ask Margo," he says carefully.

“Sure.”

“But.”

“Mm?”

“I–– would like that.” Would like to sit next to Q, to help cook, to be overcrowded in whatever small apartment Q keeps, to play music and enjoy good company, to see Q and his dad, to dislike Julia’s boyfriend on Q’s behalf. To have that. To have Q.

“Good.” He steps closer into Eliot’s space. "Merry Christmas, Eliot."

“Merry Christmas,” Eliot replies, and he kisses Q in the snow.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [impossibletruths](http://impossibletruths.tumblr.com)


End file.
